


Bad With Names

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Project Eclipse [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Lost Love, Lust, M/M, Smut, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8484175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: Terrence Lyndon tries to remember his forgotten lost lover by getting himself a few replacements. However, he just can't seem to remember any of their names.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At Its Core](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6586411) by [Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry). 



            As Terrence Lyndon stared at own his reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, he slicked his messy roan hair back. His sleep schedule had been quite chaotic as of late. Whenever he did sleep, he found his dreams plagued with memories that did not seem to belong to him. Because of them, he had recalled that he had an ex-lover, but he could not remember his name. In fact, he could not remember much about him at all. All he remembered was that they had never said goodbye—that they had not had closure. He had considered that it was only because of the abrupt farewell that he still longed for him. Terrence had long since come to the conclusion that he had been, and was still, very much in love with the unknown man.

            A string of boyfriends, all but one at “ex” status, were not as easy to come into the front of Terrence’s mind. He had tried to date the first one, but when it became clear that an abusive, bisexual two-timer could not fill the gaping maw in his heart, he had given up on that. While he called the rest “ex-boyfriends”, he had never had an emotional connection with any of them. Plus, he still had their numbers in his contact list under pseudonyms (he could not remember any name except for Ben, though he could not remember exactly which one of them had that name) in the event of a lonely night. If it was ever made public how many men he had slept with in an attempt to at least find someone who could help him remember more about the man he truly loved, he knew that he would appear to be a no-good male whore. It didn’t help that Terrence was often drunk during the hook-ups. But for some reason, he didn’t care.

            As well as having a little black book that may as well have been the length of an encyclopedia, Terrence would often turn to alcohol for comfort. Being drunk or hungover helped him to forget when trying to remember was too difficult. Everywhere he went, he saw something that triggered a mental image of something so familiar and yet so unidentifiable. It got on his nerves almost endlessly, so he drowned it out. Whether he was _addicted_ to alcohol or not, Terrence was at least humble enough to admit that he could be described as an excessive alcoholic. He felt that he could stop whenever he wanted to, but the fact of the matter was that he didn’t _want_ to stop. He wanted to drink until he had jumbled speech even in his head, and he had done so a few times before. In fact, it was unusual for there to be a night that Terrence didn’t end by puking his guts out in a bathroom.

            He had been so deep in his own mind that he didn’t notice that his current “partner” had stepped into the bathroom until he felt hands massaging his shoulders. The man, whoever he was, seemed nice. They had seen each other a few times, and while he (Terrence decided to refer to him as Sam for ease) was all for chatting, Terrence didn’t often speak to him. In fact, he showed little emotion to “Sam” at all.

            “You’re so tense,” Sam husked in a voice that was low with lust. Terrence wasn’t certain why he had invited Sam over, since he was tired and hungover, and it was debatable whether he wanted to have sex.

            “I don’t know if I’m in the mood, Sam.” Terrence told him.

            “Tylor,” Sam—or rather _Tylor_ —corrected.

            _Close enough_ , Terrence pictured himself quipping, though he kept his mouth shut. As Tylor’s hands began moving first down his back and then along his sides, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight him or not. It didn’t feel bad, so he decided not to resist, and instead to let Tylor do whatever he wanted.

            “You should take this undershirt off,” Tylor suggested. As his arms moved down near Terrence’s, they grazed his track marks. He was unsure about where the bruised needle marks on his arm had come from. While he lacked memory of his former lover, he figured that he should remember if he had ever shot up any drugs.

            Out of the blue, he began to question why he had ever hooked up with Tylor to begin with. He thought the kid was nice, sure, and they shared their lowlife habits of alcoholism and flippant lovemaking, but what bothered him were their names. They both started with Ts. Terrence and Tylor, he realized, were horrible names when paired together. It sounded so corny to him, like the name of a bad sitcom. Terrence and _Sam_ was much better, he thought, but then he found that it didn’t roll well off of his mental tongue.

            _Sam and Terrence?_ He questioned the order of the names. Things often sounded better when sorted by alphabet, he thought.

            Having received no answer, Tylor continued grazing his hands down Terrence’s abdomen. Terrence felt the man stick his hands into his pants, gripping onto his jutting hip bone. He found himself starting to think about his job. Tylor probably thought that he was some sort of accountant. Given his terrible reputation, Terrence doubted that anyone would ever guess that he was a CIA Agent. It was only a day prior that he had left Chicago and driven all the way to Livonia to meet with Russell Southwell, a mere high-school student who had made an artificial intelligence smarter than anything Terrence had ever seen. The A.I. was able to crack both of the CIA recruitment codes within twenty minutes. As amazing as it was, Russell had unfortunately declined the offer to work with them. When Terrence reported this, his director was damn near adamant about doing something to the effect of killing Southwell, but he had insisted that they give the boy some time to think. Hopefully, Russell would change his mind and call the number that Terrence had left on his “business card”.

            When Tylor’s body pressed up against Terrence’s, as did his hand to the Field Agent’s manhood. Terrence exhaled. Maybe sex would be good. It might take his mind off of his troubling, ceaseless thoughts. So, the agent turned his head to the right as far as he could, allowing Tylor to begin sloppily kissing the corner of his mouth before leaning in to kiss him deeper. He felt his partner’s hand wrap around his shaft, shaky and almost teasingly slow in how it moved up and down, so he twisted back more, trying to get closer—to lose himself in the act that he was now a part of.

            Terrence felt nothing for Tylor, romantically or otherwise. So, to make it seem as though he cared, he did what he did for every man he let fuck him: he imagined that Tylor was his lost lover. Mentally, he tried to project what snippets of the mysterious man he could remember onto the man that was now bucking into him a bit. This made the experience much more enticing for Terrence, who even allowed himself to let out a low moan to keep the façade going. He heard Tylor undoing his belt but tuned out the noise; he didn’t picture his former lover as having been one to wear belts.

            It wasn’t long before he felt his own pants fall to his ankles. He was pressed against the sink somewhat, wearing nothing but his sunglasses (he still had a hangover, and the bright green-ish lights of the bathroom didn’t help his migraine) and a white undershirt, with the hand of someone who was pretty much a stranger jerking him off. As the man that he imagined was his lost love used his other hand to feel up his left thigh, Terrence could feel the erection against his backside. The sensation made him open his eyes and think. He could not remember where the lube was, or if he even had any left.

            “No foreplay tonight, chap?” Terrence asked.

            “We’re both already hard, so I don’t see a point,” his partner panted.

            “I guess—” Terrence cut himself off with a gasp when he felt something enter him. “Hey, you missed a step,” he snickered, his nervousness coming across in his tone.

            “Forget the lube, I can’t wait.”

            “Well, that’s all fine and swell, but that would hurt us both.” As the digit squirmed about inside him, Terrence tried to dig his fingers into the sides of the medicine cabinet. “That wouldn’t be very fun,” he reasoned.

            “Make it quick, then.”

            Terrence prayed that the lube was in the medicine cabinet, but when he found that it was, he was surprised. In hindsight, he was not sure why he would have placed it there. Maybe it wasn’t his? Whatever the case, lube was lube, and he wasn’t going to be nitpicky about whether it belonged to him or someone else. He handed it to Tylor, who squirted it onto his own forefingers before roughly fucking the agent with the two digits. With his free hand, he grabbed at Terrence’s hair and started to tug at it. From prior experience, he had learned that this was Tylor’s go-to move when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Terrence began to pant. He yearned to reach orgasm and be done with this. It wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying himself—he just preferred quick sex. It usually led to less pillow talk.

            His thoughts about ending it both weakened and strengthened when his partner swapped fingers for erection. On one hand, it hurt like hell. On the other, it felt amazing. The now-free right hand then resumed stroking Terrence as the tugs on his hair grew rougher with each thrust.

            “Oh, God, Michael,” Tylor groaned.

            “Terrence,” the agent corrected him in a choked gasp.

            “ _Ah_ , you’re so tight. Goddammit.”

            Terrence went back to projecting his fuzzy memories onto Tylor at the exact moment that the man happened to pound against his prostate. “Harder, M—…” He trailed off when he realized that he did not know the rest of the name that he had wanted to say. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he could not figure out what it was.

            Tylor obeyed, leaving Terrence quivering on the edge of his limit. The agent saw curly black hair, and… was it a chin strap? Green eyes met his in his mind, but he was well aware that, in reality, he was staring into space. Would he ever find the man he loved? Somehow, he doubted it, so another man would have to do… but it would never be enough, would it?

            “Fuck, I think I’m gonna—” Tylor struggled to speak. His actions grew erratic as he struggled between the painstaking options of continuing and finishing.

            Terrence could not articulate anything. He was no longer thinking, which was delightful for him. “ _Mohr…_ ” He breathed, again trying to search his subconscious for the name. “ _Mor…_ ” When he recognized the feeling flooding his system, he started to exhale a little harder.

            Tylor finished first, and the cry he let out took Terrence over the edge. He choked out a silent yell, his mouth hanging open in ecstasy as he came. They both then proceeded to stay where they were, panting hard. Terrence had to assume that he blacked out there when, the next thing he knew, he was lying in bed beside Tylor. He didn’t realize why he woke up until he heard his cellphone ring a second time, which prompted him to pick it up. The caller ID revealed that it was none other than Russell Southwell. But, it also showed him the time: 3:23 in the morning. Thus, it was with slight reluctance that Terrence answered the call.

            “Hello, Lyndon speaking,” he greeted. His throat was very dry. Without warning, he craved whiskey on ice.

            “Hey, it’s, uh… It’s me.” Russell mumbled. “Look, I know it’s late and all, but… I mean, I thought about your offer.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “I’ll work with you.”

            Terrence was only half present for the rest of the brief conversation with Russell. Before ending the call, he told the young man that he would call him in a few hours, and that he should get some sleep.

            _Well, that’s good_ , he thought, _now I don’t have to murder him._

            Tilting his head back and gazing at the ceiling, Terrence thought more about his string of lovers. He finally almost had a name for the first of them all, but he hadn’t been able to figure out what exactly it was. The full name was buried deep in his repressed memories. Still, it was a start.

            Terrence glanced down at the man he had just been fucked by. After a moment of thought, he realized that he could no longer remember what he went by.

            _Man, am I ever bad with names._

 


End file.
